I Might Lose the Sun
by dimefor12
Summary: A kind of spin-off of a previous story, "A Life Lived." Sam and Dean after 3.16. Wincest 'Interlude' explicit
1. Chapter 1

He says, "Dean," and it's easy; somehow, he thinks, it should be harder; thinks the word should be croaked, show some sign of disuse. But it comes out even, with a steadiness that surprises him. All the months of researching, trailing leads, begging, half-done deals with any demon who would give him a second glance, and this is how they meet: a darkened stairwell at some fleabag hotel, Dean standing, silent, at the top of the landing, and Sam? Frozen mid-way up the stairs that lead to his room. He knows, he knows, this is dangerous--this is everything that he's ever been warned against. But, his brother's been gone for five months, _in hell_, and he says it again, "Dean." That's all there is, and he wonders if the third time will bring some surety against what he knows his brother is or will bind Dean to him. He clamps down on the urge; the words crumbling in his throat leave behind a _sweetsick _aftertaste, but he swallows it down, holds it in like it's something precious.

"Well?" Sam startles at the sound, isn't expecting it. _That_ voice. "Gonna show me which is your room?" And the inflection, the tone, is right--is everything that five months of silence couldn't dim or take away.

"You know," he says, but eases up the stairs, stops two steps away. Dean doesn't shift back, and they stand there, equal--the first time for years--in height.

"Yeah," and Dean smiles, and Sam understands. The salt, the wards, there to keep things like Dean out; Sam gets it, but doesn't acknowledge it. Doesn't have to. "Hell, Sammy," and hands reach for him, grip him where shoulder meets neck. Dean's spot--his way of saying _hello_ or _you okay _or_ where've you been_.

When Sam allows it, doesn't flinch or turn away, Dean smiles--big, sincere, goofy--and finally steps away. Sam ignores the coolness that replaces his brother's touch, ignores the desire to wrap arms around himself. Tries to smile, too, and fills the space that Dean leaves open. Without glancing back, Sam goes right. His room is the last, and he brushes his arm against the railing as he walks. It's solid metal; the kind that leeches body-heat and never warms up. Sam knows. He's stood out here, wrapped his fingers around it and held on. Tried to make it less impersonal, less cold. It had bothered him, though he couldn't say why, but now--now, it matches the spots Dean left, offers Sam grounding and reality, and it makes him thankful.

He reaches the door, slides the key-card into the slot, eyes on the green circle. This is how he decides; he can step inside, leave Dean outside (_can't cross, can't cross_), and shut the door. He can pretend he never saw his brother. Pretend that Dean never left the place The Deal sent him to. Or he can smudge the lines, take down a ward or two--disrupt the protection he had tediously taped to the doorframe. He can let him in.

"Sam." It's not a question. And Sam glances over, sees Dean idly picking at the plywood that is bared, left after cheap siding had been ripped off. Sam had not overlooked the _Best-Value Lodging Is Undergoing Renovations _sign when he had pulled in.

"Just give me a minute." He shoves open the door, careful to toe open the circle as he steps inside. It's only a second to flip on a lamp and take down three pieces of notebook paper stuck to the door. He stares for a moment at one, sees the sigil scrawled over the lined paper, sees the blots at each of the four corners where he dabbed holy water. _If there's no God, _he thinks before folding it and putting it in the sidetable drawer, _why does it work? _It's Dean's voice, years separating them, that answers: _belief. _"Alright," and his brother is there, in the room. Sam sees the minute flinch ripple through Dean's body, but doesn't challenge it. Just turns away, and works his arms out of the jacket he's wearing.

"So, Sammy," and he turns at his name, jacket poised over the chair before he drops it, relaxes tense muscles. Silence has worked so far, has made him feel more comfortable, so he cocks an eyebrow. Something like a chuckle works its way out of Dean. "What're you doing in Macon?"

"A job," he shrugs, settles in the chair. The jacket's zipper digs into his back as he leans into the cushion. He can feel the teeth snag his shirt. "Bad lead, though." He watches Dean sprawl on the only bed. It's so natural that he almost forgets. _Where're the black eyes, the blood? _Maybe those things are there, just waiting--different time, different place, different...Dean. It should make him more wary, or at least drive home what he's dealing with. But the fact is that it's Dean's green eyes and cocky attitude, and Sam _needs _it. So he'll play the game, and when the fall-out happens, he'll pay the price. "Anyway. I know what you really want to ask." It's Dean's turn to raise an eyebrow. "The Impala."

It's strange; after five months of silence--because there was alot Sam would do, but talking out loud to himself wasn't one of them--he hears Dean's laugh. It's deep, strong, and still has that undercurrent of cynicism. If it wasn't so surreal, Sam would laugh, too. As it is, he can't even smile, just bites his lip and waits. Finally, Dean says, "Yeah. That was next. How is she? Still beautiful?"

"Yeah, man. Been taking her to Bobby, regular. Made sure to keep her up for--" and here he stalls; he's not sure if it's wise to bring it up, remind Dean (_as if he's forgotten. Like he doesn't know what he is_); he's beginning to think that it's his own guilt he's trying to save himself from. There are too many questions his brother can ask, too many things Sam didn't do. And if they talk about it, they'll talk about_ that_ and he doesn't have any kind of answer to give.

"Cool. She is mine." Dean's staring hard, now. It throws Sam off balance, but before he can do anything but shift in his seat, his brother grins. "How's the porn?"

"What?" He follows as Dean's index finger points to the battered t.v. "Oh. Jesus, Dean. I don't know," he doesn't add that last night he had fallen asleep to some hair-loss infomercial and dreamed of Nair and going bald and wearing a felt cowboy hat. "I doubt they even get pay-per-view here."

Dean snorts, but doesn't say anything else. There's printouts on the table, scattered, from the hunt. Rumors of a zombie-making cult, and Sam had been curious enough to check it out. He came all this way for whispers and false tips. Ended up here, with his brother just returned from hell. He drags the closest sheet of paper to him--stats of missing persons, bodies found, wounds--and rubs his finger tips along the edge, lets the oils mar the surface with grey smudges, then rips scraps off, and sets them into piles on the tabletop. It's simple; something he can lose himself in, touch and see and know it's _him_ doing it.

Which is more than he can say for anything else. He knows he doesn't have control over what's happening. Dean's just amusing himself, and if Sam's getting anything out of it he's pretty sure Dean doesn't care, or can't. And Sam can't forget Dean's face as Lilith stood over him; can't forget the blood that had bloomed red over his brother's chest as hellhounds ripped into him. Most importantly, though, Sam can't reconcile this Dean--spread out on his stomach, hands bunched beneath one flat pillow--to the Dean that he had wrapped in a sheet (_shroud_) from some stranger's linen closet and burned. That body is ash and cinder, and the one that came to him tonight is just a remembrance. For him. For what's left of Dean. And yet Sam can't say _no, _can't even begin to imagine what it'd do to him to turn this away_._

"It's late, dude." Dean's right arm unbends and flails a minute before finding the vacant side of the mattress. Sam watches, almost hypnotized, as his brother pats his hand against the material. One. Two. "There's plenty of room." Then, lifting his head to look over his shoulder at Sam, he adds, "I won't bite."

"Mm," is the only response Sam can think of. But he gathers himself up, walks the few feet to the bed and lays down on his back, hands resting on his stomach. Dean's opposite.

"You actually gonna sleep in those nasty ass jeans? And your boots?"

Sam takes stock. So, okay, he _was, _but, "So? You are, too." Dean lifts one leg in answer, and Sam sees bare foot. "Socks and shoes off, I'm proud." But he pulls the overshirt over his head and throws it in the corner. The rest follow suit until he's in his boxers and tee-shirt, and Dean's fully dressed, still on top of the covers. Sam suddenly wants to hide; he can't see his brother's face _(turned away, pressed into pillow_) and he wants to. Wants the lie that only Dean can give him; only he can't find the words or the strength, so he just lies there, shoulder brushing Dean's and it's almost enough. "Guess I'll get the light," he really doesn't know why he says it, announces it like it's important, but the words sit heavy on him, come out weak.

Dean finally moves, switches to his side facing Sam. A second, and then he's using his free hand to grasp Sam's. Dean's fingers press down on the bones of his wrist, and Sam feels the warning, the added strength that Dean never had, before. For all that, though, there isn't anything in his expression, no tension or casualness in his body. Blank. That's what echoes down his voice when he says, "You sure you wanna do that, Sammy?"

"I don't know." It's true. He can't decide if it'd be better to leave the lamp on, be able to see every movement Dean makes, or turn the thing off and never see it coming. Dean squeezes one more time, and Sam lowers his hand, settles it back on his belly. The back of Dean's hand is against his shirt, held down by the weight of Sam's arm, but neither pull away. "Dean." Green eyes slide to him. "Dean, what are you doing here?"

"Can't a guy visit his baby brother?" Dean sticks the arm caught under him beneath his pillow, releases the other hand holding Sam's wrist to press, palm down, underneath Sam's where it rests against the waist-band of his boxers. The heat feels almost damp, makes the thin shirt feel sticky against his skin.

Sam's aware that Dean hasn't answered his question. But he's thinking of turning on his side, copying Dean's position, and he wanders if Dean'll move his hand, or let it land in a different spot. He wanders which he would prefer. "Fine." He'll stay still, keep Dean's hand where it's at. Better all around, he thinks. "How long are you staying?" The question is soft, low, and he thinks his brother won't hear, but.

Dean's propped up, mouth suddenly at Sam's ear, where he can feel the hot, moist breath at the side of his face. Can feel Dean's chin touching his shoulder, moving with the words, "At least the night. Obviously. Figured you wouldn't want me around too long after that, so gotta get my fill, huh, Sammy?"

Sam turns his head and they're so close their noses almost brush. _Inhale. Exhale. _And Dean's on the same rhythm, nose flaring slightly with every breath. Calm. Now it's his turn to sidestep the question, and replies with another, "What are you?"

There's Dean smile, the one that doesn't mean anything--is for strangers and random hook-ups. "Come on, Sam, don't play dumb; who better than you to know?" Sam thinks of the wards, the salt, Ruby's black eyes and her angry _I remember what it's like to be human. _Sam thinks Dean's still more human than not, maybe. Demon, yes, but he hasn't been gone long enough for that to take over. It will, in time; when Dean leaves the hotel, leaves Sam, in time he'll be more demon than Winchester. But now? Sam believes it's mostly Dean. Has to.

Still, he says, "Christo," and watches his brother flinch back; not _away_, but suddenly there's a little more space between them. He sees Dean's eyes waver--not black, but not completely green, either. Then it's gone, and Dean's there, glaring--_not cute, dude. _"How come you're you?"

"Because I can. Because I wanted to," lips brush his cheek; Dean's hand has slid under his shirt, trailing up and down over sensitive flesh. And it's easy, again; they've declared a stalemate, a truce, and Sam gives in. His mom is dead. Jess. Dad. All that's left is this Dean; Sam can't refuse for himself, and there is no one left to care, to begrudge him this.

Dean's said it, and Sam's known. This might be all that remains of Sam's Dean, what's so entangled with the demon that it makes no difference. That the man who is his brother might be gone or fading, and what's here is just..._something_ wearing the right mask. But that doesn't stop Sam, doesn't make him say _no _when Dean's lips cover his or tease inside. Nothing like denial crosses his mind as a sturdy weight covers him, settling between his thighs.

Later, when fingers press inside, he just holds on and _breathes._


	2. Chapter 2

He feels brittle, like there's electric currents under his skin, splintering his bones. He doesn't want to think, doesn't want to know what others would say about what he's done (_what he's let leave_). The truth is, though, that when he had woken up Dean had been long gone. The only things that showed he was ever here is a blank piece of hotel paper left on the sidetable, beared down by keys; car keys, to be exact, but one glance and Sam knows they aren't the Impala's. He doesn't have a car alarm, for one, and the Toyota emblem embossed on the metal is a dead giveaway. _Shit, _he thinks, but he isn't really surprised. The Impala had always been Dean's, and though it had been Sam's home for more years than he can count, his brother had always withheld the right to ownership. So, yeah, he isn't surprised, but the hot weight spreading through him kind of feels like mourning, and he isn't sure what it's for.

He can't bring himself to leave the hotel room. He isn't sure what he expects (_theyknowtheyknowtheyknow_), but the room feels safe after retaping the wards and smoothing the salt back into place, and that's what he wants. He strips the sheets (bare, scratchy mattress but he'll live), takes a shower, and then he's tired again. It's the simplest thing in the world to crawl into bed again, wrap himself in the one clean blanket, and ignore everything else. So he does.

That night he dreams of Dean, rolling down some old-country back road. The windows are open and Zeppelin pours from the speakers; he doesn't know how fast the Impala's going, but the wind rushing over the car sounds long, drawn-out, never-ending. _Like screaming_, Sam thinks, and then he's gone.

888

When Ruby slides into the booth, Sam's not even surprised. This is what his life has turned into--he has one demon on the loose he won't kill, why not add another?

"So, Sam." Her eyes are clear, are blue, and Sam thinks _public. _"What have you been up to lately?"

He breathes over the coffee cup he's holding, feels the steam heat his face before putting it down on the scarred table. "What d'you want?" He won't play her games, not when he just wants this to be over.

"Fine. Be that way." She leans toward him slightly, grin quirking her lips. "Hear Dean's in town," she's trying to bait him, rub salt into his wounds, but if that's her best, then Sam thinks he's safe. "Wants to see you."

"You're his messenger now? Fallen pretty far, there, Ruby."

That hit. He sees it in the sudden tension around her eyes, in the body that's all coiled intent. "Funny, _Sammy, _but I'm not the one fucking my brother." She shrugs, relaxes. "But," pale, delicate fingers snag his coffee, raise it to her mouth. Sam's sure the girl the body belonged to is long dead, but he still winces at the burns the liquid has to be leaving. "Have you been hunting?"

It's his turn to shrug. "Here and there, but you don't need me to tell you that." His own smile feels stiff, like it doesn't belong to him. "Why?"

"Lilith." Sam opens his mouth, but Ruby stops him, stares him down. "She's not gunning for you at the moment. So neither are any of the big names. Too pathetic." Not quite what he was expecting but it works. "I was thinking. With everyone's back turned we could strike. Take them out."

"Well, seeing as we failed the last time, I can't say I'm interested." He reaches over, takes the cup back, just for something to do with his hands. The bottom grates as he spins it on the rough surface of the tabletop.

"Huh." The noise drags his eyes back to Ruby's. "I told you once that you still have the powers Azazel gave you, Sam." She cocks her head, studying him. "That hasn't changed. Dean doesn't need your help--" she laughs, full and throaty, but her eyes never leave him. "Not at all. You could train, become stronger than anything in this place. Take on Lilith and you won't have any competition."

"So. What? Are you and Dean doing this together? Trying to make me go Darkside or something?" He waves over a waitress, watches as the coffee is poured into his cup. Shakes his head in answer to the woman's _anything else? _

"Ah. That's what you're thinking. Believe me, Sam. Your brother is working a whole other angle. I don't think Lilith even makes it on his radar." Sam doesn't know if this is a good thing or bad. "And I know what you're going to say. _'Demons lie_,'" he chokes back the words. Waits. Then, "But we don't have to. Ever think of that? You humans are nasty enough that we only have to tell the truth; 'cause the things you people come up with? Hell can't even _compete_."

"I've told you my answer, Ruby. Take it and leave." He can't do it, can't go down that road of visions and pain and fear; Dean hadn't wanted that even to save himself, and now, Sam knows, there is no reason. He had come to Red Lodge to follow up on those vampires he and his brother had saved--if they came back, if they were still leaving humans alone. That's all. He isn't interested in Lilith, who has about a hundred stories to her name. Mother of Cain. Begetter of a whole _race _of demonic chimeras. The true mother of darkness. Somewhere, Sam is sure, people believe that Lilith spawned bad toupees and squeaky doors. Truth in legend is a matter of view point, not reality. And Sam isn't ready to wade through that again; he's got a set up with Bobby, and he passes along information if he runs across it, if it seems viable. But that's all he can do, now; he's too scattered for anything else.

"Yeah." She slides herself out of the booth. Stands and stretches and Sam hears joints pop; he wonders how long Ruby's had that body. "I figured you wouldn't go for it. Not the Winchester way to go in with the best weapons, the best advantage." What comes out of her mouth is almost a giggle, and sounds obscene. "No, you guys like those last-ditch efforts, don't you?" She bends down over him, close enough that he can smell the coffee on her breath. "Thought I'd try, though; see if you were up to a little redemption." She backs away, but Sam knows she isn't done. She has too much information to work with. "Want some free advice, Sam?" He thinks _no, no, not from you_, but she goes on, "Be careful with him, Sam. I know what you want to believe, but it's not real. He's a newbie, and he's learning fast. Faster than you." She shakes her head, starts for the door. "So, what I'm saying is: get out, because you won't win, even if you try to fight." But she throws her hands up, like she knows how the end looks, and then she leaves. Sam doesn't try to see where she's heading.

He just sits, drinks down the cooling coffee and waits. He doesn't know what this means. Ruby and Dean, both cornering him within two weeks of each other. He knows they're playing something, covering it up with the demons freed when the Devil's Gate was open. It's the perfect patsy, Sam thinks. There's going to be havoc, if their plans spread out, adds to the mess already overwhelming hunters, and they don't know that Dean and Ruby are in, Sam knows _that. _Sam's the only one who does, and he hasn't told anyone. Can't imagine that conversation going over well. _Hey, Ellen, yeah. Listen. While I was in Red Lodge making sure vampires were okay, I ran into Ruby and let her go. Yeah, and by the way, Dean's out. _What can he say? _Don't worry, I've got it under control_? He doesn't; even he knows how much he's fucked up. Yeah, the option to tell had pretty much run out as soon as he let his brother walk out the door.

When Sam's sure Ruby is long gone, he gets up and walks to the counter, ready to settle his bill and get away. He gives the waitress that served him a ten out of his wallet, says _no, keep it_ when she hands him change. It doesn't matter, in the bigger scheme of things. Won't make one difference, and it's just another thing he's guilty of, that he feels like bleach through his veins.

888

He goes to the old house, where he had first been taken. Where he had met Lenore and Eli; right then, he thinks, he knew that nothing was black and white. Lenore's earnest face flashes through his mind, and he knows she isn't here, had left as soon as she could. But he still goes in, sees the abandoned boxes and remnants of her life. It's covered with time, with dust and grime; everything here is, and yet he can't look away, can't leave until he sees everything.

It's proof, he supposes, of doing the right thing, when everybody thought it was a mistake. Why kill a handful of creatures not doing any harm when there are a thousand others that will never be caught, that will do worse? Dean hadn't been comfortable with it, even after. He had still wanted to go back, track them down, finish them, because _evil's evil, Sammy, there's no gray. _Dean had always hated Sam's gray spaces; the way Sam could never define something as _just good _or _just bad. _Fought tooth and nail over it, and now Sam thinks his brother must be revelling in it.

But he's seen everything the house has to hold, all of its secrets. It's left him wanting something, anything, and he backs out, remembers the old clearing where the first body had been found _(Sam, that's a fang)._ Remembers reading the police reports and discovering that it wasn't far from where Lenore's group had lived. It had been behind the house and farmland, and he heads there--unsure of _why, _but willing to take what he can get.

The walk doesn't take long. Even after being abandoned, the track leading to the spot is still pretty much untouched, allowing the moonlight in through the trees so that he doesn't even need to use the flashlight he brought. No, it's not taking long at all, but Sam's pretty sure something's waiting for him there. He feels the knowledge spread like goosebumps over his arms.

But it's the metallic taste at the back of his throat, stifling and _alive_, that tells him, before he steps out into the vacant area--broken only by one thick tree--who it is. "You took the Impala." And the shape at the base of the tree shifts; Sam still can't see him clearly, but he knows Dean can hear him.

"Told ya, Sam. She's mine." The voice is warm, affectionate. Sam moves closer, stepping over roots, until he can kneel down in front of his brother. "How're you liking the other car?"

"It goes," he says. "I like what you did with the trunk." This close and he can see Dean's face--smirking, bone-pale in the light. He's so at ease Sam's heart clenches. "Saw you took a few things, though."

"Just a few." Dean stretches his legs out, makes a vee to accomodate Sam. "Didn't think you'd miss 'em." He picks up a pine needle, idly shreds it, letting the remains fall beneath him. Sam watches, knows he's caught. He's beginning to get used to the feeling.

"Dean." The hands stop and his brother's eyes are on him now. Still (_lifeless_). "What have you been doing?" And it could've been a light-hearted question, except Sam's voice is hoarse, can't control the vague horror that spawned the question.

"Always with the half-assed questions, little brother." His stare is still intent, lips pursed for a moment. "_Don't _ask things you don't really wanna know, Sammy." He flicks the stem away, brushes off his hands. "'Cause I'll answer you, if you want. I can take you with me and stop meeting up like this. If you want. But," there's an edge to his voice, and Sam almost wants to lean away, get space between them. Almost. "I don't think you do."

Sam doesn't want to know. Because if it's blood and death, and Dean tells him then Sam can't hide it, can't reason away his actions. But he can't stop himself, either. Too many questions are bubbling up, things their dad taught them to look for, and he can't _not_. "Who's car am I driving? How'd you get it?"

"I have my ways, Sam. Anyway, still gotta look out for you, right? Couldn't leave you stranded in Georgia, of all places."

Sam remembers to breathe. He's shaking, muscles jumping under his skin, but he plunges on, "Damn it, Dean, just--"

He doesn't see his brother surge up, but he's suddenly splayed on his back and Dean's thighs are pressing in on either side of Sam's hips. "What do you want to see, Sam?" He leans closer and his eyes are all Sam can focus on. "This?" Black overtakes green and Sam tries to sink into the earth beneath him. _Not this, not this. Please. _Dean's darting down, and Sam has nowhere else to go, so he shuts his eyes as Dean bites at his mouth. Raw. Hunger. Sam feels it, but this isn't his brother, is far from anything Sam's known.

"Stop." He tries to jerk his head away, but there's hands holding him still. "_Dean." _His bottom lip stings where Dean's sunk teeth in, and Sam feels something warm trickle down to his chin. _Blood, _he thinks, and then Dean is there, slowing. His brother doesn't move away, just rests against him.

"Fine. Not that kinky, I guess." The laugh huffs out of him and Sam feels it travel down Dean's body and into his own. Then warmth is teasing at him, and he opens, but Dean's tongue darts away, goes slightly lower. "Hmm," is all his brother says; Sam knows Dean's tasting his blood, licking it away; he can't complain, though, because when he sees his brother's face again he's greeted by warm green eyes and it's enough. It's all he needs.


	3. Chapter 3

He mails Bobby his laptop, four days outside of Red Lodge. Walks to the post office, fills out the forms, and slips a creased note inside: _I'm going on a rough job; don't want this damaged. It has new information on it, so take a look if you want. _He signs it _Sam, _and wonders, as the worker tapes the box closed, if he should have added anything else, anything personal. But then, he thinks, it would've sounded like goodbye, and even if Bobby deserves something like that_, _Sam isn't sure what to say (_I'm sorry, I'm sorry). No, _he supposes, _it's better this way._

Still, while he's waiting on takeout a few days later, Bobby's number appears on his caller i.d.; he doesn't answer, just holds the phone in his hand as it vibrates and waits for the voicemail to pick up. The generic greeting is only going to piss Bobby off further, but he can't. He doesn't have an explanation for any of it, can't think beyond the next minute, the next second, and there's no guarentee of what he'll tell him if Sam hears the gravel-soft voice.

When the message flashes on his screen, he listens to it. Hear's Bobby's, _It's me, Sam. I got the package today. What's this about? You in trouble? 'Cause I don't want nothing goin' down like last time. You call me, boy, and tell me what's going on. _Last time, when Sam had nearly reopened the Devil's Gate in Wyoming, thinking that Dean could escape hell like their dad. _The last act of a desperate man, _he thinks.

He smashes the phone against the brick wall he's been leaning against; ignores the scrapes on his knuckles; ignores the blood rushing to the surface of torn skin. Bobby's probably going to call Ellen, when Sam doesn't respond, and it's too much. He doesn't need the phone, because the only one who can really get through to him anymore is the one that knows how to find him.

He stares for a moment at the scattered pieces of plastic and wire before stepping inside and checking on his order.

888

It's the first time Dean's come to him with blood on his hands. Sam knows without asking that it isn't Dean's, and he tries not to wonder who's it is, tries not to think of all the reasons his brother might show up like this, because it isn't accidental; Dean is too cleaned up, too composed, to forget about the rusty stains outlining his fingernails. Dean's proving something, Sam knows; and, really, thinking of everything he's done (_for Dean, with Dean_), it's not necessary.

He doesn't need any reminders. Ever since Montana, his brother's been trailing him, and the times they meet are more frequent, and Sam realizes that with every stop Dean's becoming less recognizable, becoming more of everything Sam's feared. His brother still hasn't possessed another body, preferring to maintain his own. At first Sam thought it was for him, to give him some comfort (_make him follow, believe, accept_); now, though, he thinks Dean's just used to it, doesn't want to change something that has always worked well.

But this, the hands framed in red (_dried; how many hours ago? Who?_), is just another step, another way his brother is pushing him. Sam doesn't flinch away as Dean lifts them to his face, pressing on his cheekbones and laying thumbs to the skin between bottom lip and chin; he knows what this means, and as he stares down at his brother--face still, eyes clear and empty--he isn't sure if what he's doing is winning or scattering everything he is at Dean's feet. One thumb moves, quick, so quick he doesn't feel the hand tense or relax, and it rests on his mouth. He can smell sweat, knows it's from being wrapped tight around a steering wheel, but nothing else. It surprises; he thought he'd smell death, some small trace of whoever's blood Dean's wearing. Almost wants to, because he can share that, know what price was paid. _Mourn _for them, and feel relief that he's still capable of that. Even now.

But it's only Dean. And Sam feels pressure at his lips, thinks about saying _enough, no, _thinks about tightening his jaw. Thinks about refusal. But Dean's close, thigh wedged between his (_heat and strength and force_); it's him, pressed to the door of room, caught by Dean as he was leaving. More than that, it's scrabbling and howling and baying for hours, hellhounds right outside, when--for the first and only time--he'd left his brother waiting.

So he doesn't fight it. Dean's flesh pushes in, calloused and rough, and Sam flicks his tongue until he feels the ragged fingernail scrape the roof of his mouth, drags his bottom teeth over skin he can reach. It's over, then; Dean's pulling his thumb back, brushing it across Sam's lips and his saliva feels cool and wet before it's wicked away. But Sam's hard, aching with want and guilt, and his brother is laughing--rocking up into him. An instant of pressure, gone, and Sam groans, torn between pushing Dean away and yanking him closer.

Someone slams a door to their left, and suddenly there's space between them, weak sunlight stripping a path, delineating boundaries. Dean's outlined by the light, the orange-red casting sparks of fire in his hair and leaving his face in shadow; Sam can't see more, because he's blinded where he stands, shadow and sun playing havoc on his eyes until he sees coronas of flame behind his eyelids.

But he hears Dean's baritone, charming and full, say, "'Scuse us, ma'am." He hears the woman's reply _oh, I'm so sorry_, and knows by the breathless laugh that she's trying to shuffle around them. He leans his head against the door, closes his eyes. There's something knowing in his brother's voice; something that sends tendrils of anxiety through Sam, enough that he wants Dean to stay with him, here. But he doesn't have that power anymore, doesn't lead Dean, not now.

He's expecting it, when Dean says, "See ya later, Sammy." Dean kisses the pulse (_racing, racing_) at his neck, and then he's gone, footfalls echoing off the cement. Minutes pass by, and Sam finally hears the Impala rumble, catch and start. The deep hum of it spreads through his body, even at this distance, and he raps his head against metal and plastic, pretends the knot in his throat isn't that woman's death or the sharp, cutting acidity of her fear.

888

Sam dreams of Dean, of Ruby, there at the Impala. The moon is always full, heavy and pregnant. Always quiet, though Sam sees a squat building--a bar, dim light shining from the windows. Dean's head is always bent, and Sam can hear the hushed sounds of lips and tongues sliding against each other.

Then Dean always, always raises his head, Ruby's body suddenly limp, dangling except for where arms wrap around her. Dean always looks to him, and Sam sees holes (_bloody, mangled_) in his brother's cheeks; raw gashes that reveal sinew and muscle and bone, the white flash of teeth. Knows Dean's lips will be coated in blood, looking like tar, and will be sewn shut with thin strips of leather weaving in and out over and over; harsh, panting breaths will ooze the thick, congealing fluid down his chin.

And when Dean reaches for him, letting Ruby crash to the ground, his hands become a hundred more, grasping and raking and pulling. The quiet turns to screams, to cries, that are shrill and deafening. Faceless bodies bear down on him, and he always falls.

888

He thinks about old hunts, sometimes. Remembers Dean and their dad, so sure and quick. They would head in, and Sam could feel the wild energy of them. Those were the times he was sure that their family did the right thing. He would see the faces of those that were saved and be content with it. But the times it went bad--usually so fast Sam couldn't tell up from down--when they bled and snapped or the person they saved was even darker than the angry spirit they were cleansing--those times Sam hated it. Wanted_ out _so bad that it ate at him, turned him around so that he couldn't even look at his family without wanting to break them.

That's how the last hunt--the one before Stanford, before Jess--had ended. They had been down in Louisiana after hearing of serious black magic involving hallucinations and death, and by the end of it, Sam had wanted to scream. He was tired of the hot, humid air; tired of the oppressive feel of the place, because Louisiana, in Sam's opinion, has always been to close to the dead. The weight of it always settled wrong with him, made him irritable and angry, and this time was no exception.

But the job had ended without serious damage to anyone. Those that had been cursed weren't, so Sam filed it away as a success and thought they were going to be heading out. Until, sitting in some themed restuarant, they had overhead a couple talking about a little boy who had been mauled. Nothing really unusual, but then the man said the magic words:_ Charlie had been such a good dog_, and Sam knew they were staying, knew they were going to see if the dog attack was natural or not.

It hadn't been. Apparently, the couple they had overheard had been the previous owners. They had given the dog away after their little boy had been killed (_drunk driver riding up on the sidewalk_); the dog had been his, some stray mutt he had brought home one day, and after his death the grieving parents couldn't handle it, and given him away to another kid down the street.

The boy--Sam had found out--was a bully. Typical big, nasty kid who didn't hesitate to smack others around. He had gotten the dog, told the murdered boy's parent they were friends. But. The collar the dog wore was homemade, made by childish hands when the dog had gotten older. And when the boy's spirit grew angry, it used that connection to get revenge, and the dog had done it, responded to it's master.

So, they had salted and burned the bones, and felt the spirit leave. But the dog--the dog was euthanized (_he's vicious, he almost killed our boy_). Sam had asked, had found out where the shelter was. Went and paid for cremation, talked his dad into staying until the ashes were mailed back. He took the small, clear bag and ent to the boy's grave, stood over it and read _Our Beloved Child, Rest With God_ until it was all he could think. It was easy, then, to dig a small hole, pour the dog's remains into it and cover it with soil.

Because he knew the child who was attacked would live, maybe a few scars, maybe a nightmare or two. But he would live. And this one could never have that chance, and the spirit had done the only thing it could do, the only thing really left for it. And for some reason that was the seal on his plans; the first boy didn't deserve to be killed, and the second had, to Sam, deserved the pain. But they had banished the one, and saved the other, and his father and brother talked about the ghost as if it was evil, and Sam knew it wasn't.

_We make them, _Sam thinks now, remembering, _we make them evil by everything we do. _

888

He's in Washington the next time he sees Dean. He's renting by the week from an old woman, who seems to own endless acres of mountain and forest. It's heading towards winter and the weather is cool and crisp, is everything Sam wants. So he stays, comfortable in the isolation, in not seeing faces, expressions, not having to worry that the next stranger he meets might also meet his brother.

But Dean's huffing, "Dude, why couldn't you get a suite at some swanky hotel? Coulda went to Tacoma, saw the Space Needle."

Sam thinks about cities, the overbearing mass of people, and says, "No." And as he's zipping up his jacket, "I like it here." He saw some hiking trails the other day, and he wants out of the cabin, stifling with his brother so close.

"You would," is all Dean says. But he follows Sam out the door (_unwarded, unsalted_), and steps beside him as Sam heads for one of the paths.

"I saw Ruby," he says it to break the silence, because with his brother here it feels tight, and it prickles at the back of his neck. "After I went to the vampire's nest."

Dean's idly pushing back limbs as they walk, and Sam thinks for a moment that's it. He doesn't know where the conversation is going, only knows that he has to talk, has to hear their voices. "You didn't tell me."

"No," he says, glancing at his brother's profile. It doesn't tell him anything, had ceased to weeks ago, but he can't help searching. "It didn't seem important. But," he looks away, studies the trees as they pass (_old, so old_). "She acted like she'd seen you. Knew what you were doing." This is a mistake, he knows it, now. The words, everything he wants to say, to give sound to, seem lodged behind his teeth. "She's up to something."

"Yeah, Sam." Dean snorts but doesn't look his way. "She's not a good guy." It's ridiculous coming from Dean, and Sam wants to laugh, but the emotion welling up is sort of like hysteria and he wills it away.

"You're one of them." It comes out a statement, and Sam's left off-guard. He doesn't want to hear the response, because either way--truth or lie--it's a loss.

But Dean only says, "I'm your brother. I'm _family_, Sam."

Sam hears everything Dean leaves unspoken, but he can push that to the side, swallow it down, and answer. "Yeah. You are." It's part of it, he tells himself, and he'll be okay. He knows that, and he'll let himself believe.


	4. Chapter 4

He sees them, every once in a while. When he's walking through the woods, or looking out the windows of the little cabin, he can see..._things_ moving; black shadows that ripple across his vision, and if he looks long enough it's like vertigo, spinning him in place. The first few days that Dean stayed, Sam felt different, felt electric currents in the air, tingling through him, as if there was always a threat of an impending storm. But now, ten days after Dean came to Washington, decided to stay, Sam's _seeing. _It's not the first time demons have gathered in one place, they've tended to flock around his family, but this is the first time that he's never had his brother or father there, at his back.

Sometimes he wants to ask Dean what they look like. He remembers Dean's face the nights before his year was up. The horror and disgust every time he looked at Ruby or had seen someone possessed. Even, he thinks, when Dean would look at _him; _he had wondered about that, then, about what it meant. But he had been fixated on Dean's deal, on what was coming for him, and he had never asked. Now, he's starting to think that was a mistake. Maybe he should have made time, found out what Dean saw, if it was the skittering shadows like Sam's seeing now, or if it's the completed form that he knows lurks in Ruby's shell, and maybe in Dean's.

But every time he opens his mouth, full of questions and accusations, the only words that come out are_ I'm sorry. _And he is; it's what's weighted him down for these past months. What's stilled him every time he thought of stopping his brother, thought of saving the people Dean's eyed. He's been guilty of failing for so long that he can't remember what it's like to fight. Somewhere, after Dean's deal was done, Sam just broke. The parts that made him a hunter collapsed, and where his brother or his father would have kept on, he fell. He's ashamed of it, but the only other thing with him is Dean, and he's gone so far that he can almost make enough sense of it to see it through.

The certainty's coming easier to him, now. Dean's here, with Sam, and never goes far, or for long, without him in tow. Sam's comfortable with that, though being with his brother is a lot like being caged with a wild animal. The violence is there, always as an undercurrent that seems to run right beneath Dean's skin; sometimes Sam'll trail his fingers along Dean's back, feel the muscles bunch and shift, and think of the things that would claw their way out of his brother if they could; he knows Dean's aware of it, has seen him turn his head at the touch, stare at him with knowing eyes and a smirk.

So, yeah, it's always there, right in between them; but so many things are, and Sam thinks that if he loses out on a few, well, then, at least Dean is where Sam is, and even if he can't send Dean back to hell like he should at least he's keeping him from hurting more people. For now, anyway. He's went on less, much less and made do, so he'll take this for as long as he can.

888

Sam's days bleed into one another. There isn't much to do except explore the area, and they do. Every day they go out, farther and farther, and look. Sam watches the shapes flicker in the corner of his eyes, but they never do anything, they're just there--a presence that feels almost solid, like a brick wall hidden by the trees. They aren't going to do anything, Sam decides, but he still carries a vial of holy water and the twice-blessed knife his dad had given him for his sixteenth birthday.

It's a medium length, two-sided blade, wicked and curved, blessed by holy water and, according to his dad, the prayers of eight priests. He's always kept it clean, sharp; loved the way the light danced along the metal, skirted the smooth edge and fractured in the teeth of the serrations on the other. Dean had kept it, when Sam moved to California, had given it back the day after Jess burned up on the ceiling. It was as taken care of as if Sam had never stopped. Even the leather on the hilt had retained his hand's shape, as if Dean took special care not to touch when he cleaned it, as if another's print would ruin what was Sam's.

Now, whenever he straps it on (_sheathe cool, tight, familiar against his thigh_), Dean stays a step or two ahead. It doesn't fool Sam; he's seen his brother handle the knife without a flinch. He's even whisked the smooth edge across Dean's flesh, drawn blood (he wonders separately if that's just an illusion, a human nicety his brother indulges in), and only seen the tentative beginnings of smoke. No, the weapon doesn't hurt what his brother's become, any more than holy water would. Sam knows Dean's moved beyond those things, and he thinks Dean keeps up the act for Sam's benefit, so Sam might think that he could use them, in anger, and hurt his brother.

But Sam's had nothing but time to watch Dean, and he knows that what could hurt Dean is hidden in their father's journal (_maybe), _which he hasn't really looked at since this whole thing began, or it's in some text of Bobby's, but that's an even more remote possibility than their dad's scrawled out notebook. The truth is, though, that he doesn't wear them to protect himself from Dean, his brother is too far under Sam's skin for that anyway; he wears them to make sure the things that flit at the corners of his eyes stay there, at a distance. Maybe he's never fought Dean, maliybe he would let his brother take whatever he wanted, but those _things _have no hold on Sam, there's no debt to justify their presence; so Sam keeps the water and the knife close as he trails behind his brother, and ignores the voices muttering in his head about learning curves and rates of exchange, ignores the flashes of Ava and Jake, eyes glassy, movements manic and jerky. _It's over, _he thinks, _it's over._

888

It's on one of these walks that they stumble across the graveyard. It's been abandoned for years; the grass is thick and lush brushing up their jeans, pressing against the sides of tombs and gravemarkers. Everything is crumbling, little pieces of stone lie everywhere, and Sam's feet find them easily until he's walking like an old man, trying to carefully search the area before placing his foot anywhere.

There's rustling all around them; wind, animals scurrying in the woods, and it feels alive, which isn't anything Sam's ever used to describe a grave site before. But it's true, and he walks around, trying to read the epitaphs, but the years have bleached the words from the stone, and there's only one that still reads _Frederick_, but that's all. No date or message, but Sam sees the distance between that headstone and the next, and figures the man had been an adult, or close to.

"Sam." Dean's voice is farther away than he expected, and he looks up to see his brother standing at another grave, and he makes his way slowly to him. His shoulder brushes Dean's and he hears a thick sound, before, "Look."

It's a child's grave (_infant_); there are blocks of bone-white stone at each end of a small rectangular plot. Sam imagines digging it up and seing a tiny coffin hiding tiny, brittle bones. He gazes around, is surprised to see many more; they vary in length, but none are anywhere close to the others Sam's been finding.

"The children's cemetery," he says, voice soft. He feels Dean shift, feels his brother's shoulder dig into his for a second before he eases away. He doesn't know what killed these kids, but judging from the age of the place, he thinks it could have been anything from starvation to hypothermia. For some reason, it saddens him to think of all the little bodies losing warmth, life, somewhere in the mountains. It doesn't seem quite fair.

His brother is quiet, hands in the pockets of his jeans. They stay that way for a long time, and Sam sees the sun start to set, bleeding orange and pink over the clearing. He doesn't want to pull Dean from whatever thoughts his brother's lost in, because that one quick glance that Sam got before Dean had looked back down at the marker was filled with sorrow. It shocks Sam, who's gotten used to the cool and aloof version of his brother. And he doesn't want it to end, to see that emotion slip away, but Dean's stirring, says, "Let's go, Sammy." And as simple as that it's gone, the Dean Sam knows is back, and he casts one last glance backwards, sees the fading light fall on stone, on earth, before he turns away.

888

They go to the graveyard almost every day after that. Just stand or sit, and it would have reminded Sam of Wyoming, of the Devil's Gate, and everything they had let loose, except this one is peaceful; there's the weight of years here, but nothing else. Even the specters following them don't invade this place, and Sam doesn't mind coming, doesn't mind running his finger against time-blunted memories and thinking about who these people might have been.

But at night Dean lies wrapped around him, arms strong and unyielding. He breathes into the back of Sam's neck, and whispers--vibrations Sam feels spreading through his back before his ears relay sound--about chains and hooks and pain. It's as if seeing that place has crumbled some wall inside his brother, and he tells Sam everything of hell, everything he remembers. Sam never says anything, there's no comfort he can give, and he doesn't think Dean wants it, anyway. He just lays there, shivering as hot breath ghosts over him, and tries not to put pictures to the words Dean says.

Then, Dean says, "I forgot about you, Sammy." And Sam wonders why that feels like a curse, why there's something heavy and intent behind it. "I forgot about you in there. But." The arms tighten, and Sam's ribs protest, but it never quite makes it into sound. "You were the first thing I remembered when I got out." The kiss Dean plants is soft, lingering, but Sam feels it like a burn.

888

Dean shakes him awake one night, murmurs, "Come with me," but Sam's bleary from sleep, trying to shake off some half-forgotten nightmare, and pulls away. He thinks about trying to close his eyes, trying to find some blankness to lull him under, but his brother is an unending presence by the side of the bed. It makes him feel hunted.

"Fine," he mutters, throwing a leg down to find boxers, jeans. "Fine." It should only take him a minute to get dressed, but he can feel Dean's stare, evaluating every movement, and it makes him fumble at zippers, at buttons. He inhales and holds it for a minute, brushing tangled hair from his eyes.

He doesn't know what his brother is doing, but he feels cornered, and reaches for the knife tucked under the mattress. Dean's there before he can blink, hand around Sam's wrist, and each finger feels like an iron band. "No. You don't need it." And Sam wants to argue, feels it jack-hammering in his throat, but the pain races through him, and he swears his bones are about to be crushed, so he nods his head (_fool, fool_), and sighs when Dean releases him.

He finds his discarded hoodie and slips it on. It'll be cool, he thinks, and wishes he had the forethought to stash _something _in it's pocket. But he's out of time, out of ideas, as he makes his way to the door, stopping only to glance at the clock hanging on the wall. Three o'clock. _The witching-hour_, he thinks, but he doesn't wince or startle as Dean steps behind him, a hand on his shoulder to direct him. Sam doesn't really need it; he knows where they're going, knows Dean's been drawn to it ever since that first day. Sam wants to shake his brother off, but the grasp feels more like a clamp, and he's not willing to see who'll win that contest.

As they walk, Sam knows the others are out, can sense the crackle of them over the night-sounds, over the pounding of his pulse. They keep back like always, but the darkness through the woods is too completely _black _to be natural, and Sam knows that they're there in force; their solidity sends uneasiness through him, and he thinks, _power. _The only question is who. Is it Dean they're living on, or him?

He twists his head around, catches sight of Dean's face. Every angle is thrown into sharp relief by the shadows and moonlight, until it looks like his brother is comprised solely of bone. "Dean--"

But they've made to the cemetery, and Dean shoves at him, sending him tripping into it. "What--" and it's more breathless than he intended, but his brother's stalking up to him, shadows playing around him, eyes glittering. "_Dean,_" and he's backing away, angling for a better stance when Dean's body crashes into him.

The force of it bears him down, and for a moment he can't breathe, can only feel hands pinning his arms down. Then he's sliding a leg between Dean's, hooking his ankle, and _pushing. _It unbalances Dean enough that Sam can scramble away, pull himself up by one of the giant slabs of stone (_a tomb, a tomb_).

Dean's laughing, even as he closes in. "Don't you wanna play, Sammy?" And his brother's closer, easy enough to lash out with a fist. It's a wild throw, but lands evenly on Dean's jaw, brings blood to his mouth. Sam can't talk, his mind is looping endlessly, horrified choruses of _nononono; _it's all he can do to keep his eyes on his brother, dance away from the form creeping inexorably closer.

His brother blocks another punch, and when Sam spins, intent on getting an elbow to Dean's temple, he wishes he had something, knife or gun, besides his own two hands. But he doesn't, and as his next move is turned, he feels Dean wrap an arm around his throat, yank his other up and behind his back. He can feel Dean panting, chest heaving into his back, and he struggles, brings his leg back to slam into knee, but Dean's stance is wide, wider than Sam guessed, and his foot hits empty air, makes him stumble in Dean's grasp. The pressure of Dean's forearm brings tears to his eyes until he can find ground, support himself, and put as much distance between them as possible.

"Come on, man." Dean sounds amused, and Sam knows, knows what's at stake. "You can't tell me you didn't know how this would end," he's turned around, and there's distance between them, an arm's length; before he can break his brother's hold, though, hands are sliding from shoulders to neck, cupping either side, gentle. Sam can feel the threat in it, how easy it would be for his brother to snap his neck. Knows he would if Sam moves.

"Yeah," he manages, feels fingertips drum against his skin. "Yeah, I did." There's a moment of hesitation; Sam can see it shimmer across his brother's pale face, but then Dean's hands are tightening, and Sam is blinded by pain, sharp and throbbing; it feels like his insides are on fire, and he's dimly aware that he's screaming, wordless cries before they're cut off, and he's on his knees in front of Dean, trying to draw in air, _something_, to still the throbbing pain in his body.

It's only when Dean pushes him against the tomb, Sam's back raking along it, that he realizes he can't move. He stares up at his brother, mute, and he sees something in Dean's hands. Circular and dark, and he thinks _what are you doing? _Before Dean's in front of him, and he sees it--nails bound together, bent so that the tips curl down. He tries to yell, anything, but his throat's spasming, leaving him mute. He hears Dean hum a moment and then he's slamming the thing onto Sam's head, and Sam can feel skin parting at the taste of nails, and then blood oozing down across his forehead, pooling at the back of his neck.

"Hell's own messiah," and it comes out of Dean like a purr. Sam can see a vague outline of his brother through the red that's leaking into his eyes, stealing his vision. Dean's squatting in front of him, veering away from Sam's splayed legs. If he could, he'd swing them, take Dean down, at least for a moment. He wants to put up some kind of fight, but now that he feels that familiar anger, that desire to _move_, he can't. He can only feel the nails, bent and twined around each other, digging into his forehead, his scalp. Can only listen as Dean murmers, "Got your own crown of thorns, too." Dean leans forward, hands braced on Sam's knee. "All that power, Sammy. Everything. And you didn't come for me. Coulda walked right in, Sam. _Walked in, _and they woulda bowed to you. Did you know that?" Hands are on him; one grasping his hair, jerking his head back so quick the pain lances through him. The other is around his throat, pressing in, choking off breath. "No, guess you didn't. Bet you didn't even check it out." His head cracks against the tomb, the circle of nails driven deep, and Sam thinks he can feel each piece of flesh rip and tear, can hear it over the pounding in his ears. "Couldn't mark you up like that, huh? You wanna know something, though?" Dean's chuckle sounds like dying, "You're more demon than me. How's that for irony?"

It's not anything he hasn't already imagined, he wants to say. But between the hands and Dean's mojo he's silent, still, even as Dean grasps his legs, pulls until he's flat on the ground. He feels weight on him, knows Dean's on top of him. Cool air is brushing his chest, and he thinks maybe his shirt's gone. Dean's tugging at him, pressure without pain, but Sam can't tell why.

It goes on and on, sensations becoming more vague; there's ripping and tearing and a flood of warmth in his hands, feet, and on his sides, under his ribs. But it's distant, like it's not him lying there, as if it's anyone else, one of the dozens of bodies that Dean's stacked up between them. He feels slightly cheated, had wanted pain from this, had thought it would be atonement of a kind, but it's just his head rolling to the side, overgrown grass tickling his closed eyes, his cheeks. It's Dean's whispered, "I'll always get you, Sammy," that's like a buzz of heat through his veins.

888

The sound winds its way through Bobby's dreams, heavy and beating, and he jerks awake, heart hammering. He's groggy and disoriented, still caught in the edges of sleep, but the unmistakable noise of a horn has him stumbling around, getting to the front door to see a UPS truck sitting in the long stretch of drive-way. He wanders out, scratching his belly and wishing he had on more than a ragged pair of shorts. But he doesn't get many visitors, so this has to be important.

"What?" He's standing by the open door of the truck, watching as the man pulls a cardboard envelope from a box and runs a scanner over it. "What is it?"

"An insured letter, sir." The man hands him the envelope and the scanner. He scrawls his name in the little screen. Watches as the man presses a few buttons, then puts it away. "Have a nice day, sir." The dust is thick as the truck backs away. Red and clinging in the humid air. The sun is free of clouds, and Bobby's always thought days like this were ugly, empty, with the sun beating down from a piercing blue sky. It makes everything bare, inescapable.

So he goes to his porch, stands there and stares at the thing in his hands. Remembers the last package he was sent, and feels slightly queasy. _Damn Winchesters, _he thinks before ripping at the tabs and peering inside. It's just a slip of paper, and he pulls it out, looks it over and flips it to the back. An address in Washington. That's it.

But he recognizes the handwriting, and he feels something in him tear apart. He shoves the paper back inside, and his fingers spasm, almost like they're trying to seal the damn thing back up. It's too late, he figures, but he'll head that way tomorrow.

__

fin


	5. I Might Lose the Sun Interlude

Interlude--I Might Lose the Sun

He feels warm breath at his neck; there, a moment before lips and moist heat replace it, start traveling down. Sam thinks it's a wandering path, and he reaches for Dean, tugs at his shoulders. He wants weight and friction and sweat. "Come on, Dean, come on," it's a whisper, already sounding too broken, but he can't untangle anything else.

"Workin' on it, Sammy." Dean's voice is low, too, pitched right into his ear. He's steady, though, where Sam is shaking, and he wonders briefly what that means before his brother's body is bearing him down, pressing tight to his in every place it matters.

Dean moves just right, and their cocks are sliding together, and that alone is sending jolts through Sam, taking away words, memories, all the things he hasn't done and won't. It doesn't matter, not when Dean's hips are moving against his, cock brushing his thigh, leaving cooling trails that make Sam feel like he's burning up and breaking open.

He feels Dean slowing, lips returning, marking his neck with suction and force, after shocks sending chills through him, drying sweat. "_Please,_" and there's a soft _snick_, and he knows. His legs find their way around Dean, and everything he wants is there: fingers pressing inside, slick and _moving_; he just breathes, lets the motion rock through him, stiffen his spine until all he can think about is _yellingbeggingpleading_, finding something to slow the coiling tension in his stomach that's threatening to drown him.

An arm slides underneath, fingers digging into his waist, and he cants his hips (_ready, ready, so fucking ready_). The burn is familiar as Dean thrusts inside, the moments of pain sparking off pleasure, and he's helpless, caught. Lost, and trying to thrust up, matching Dean's rhythm. Then Dean's hand leaves his waist, settles on his cock, stripping him. Firm and sure, and Sam's whimpering, using his own hands to grasp blindly at Dean's hair. That's how he feels it, his brother's head lowering to shoulder, then to collar bone. Mouth wide open, tongue tasting flesh and the sweat gathering there. Feels teeth graze, back and forth, over the protrusion of bone, feels them sink in and rip the thin skin.

And it's too much. _The pushpullshift_ of hand and cock and teeth, and he's gone, spiraling in and out and away, thinking only to drag Dean's head up, crush their mouths together, denying any space between them. But Sam can't shy away from the metallic taste flooding his mouth (_his blood, only his_), and it follows him down as he crashes.

_fin_


End file.
